


Engraved In Stone

by AdamantiumDragonfly



Series: Casus Belli [3]
Category: Band of Brothers (TV 2001)
Genre: Espionage, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Marc Lives - AU, Our favorite revolutionaries, Pidgeons are a thing I guess, Romance, Spies & Secret Agents, Spy OCs, World War II, kale - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:26:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28483854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantiumDragonfly/pseuds/AdamantiumDragonfly
Summary: “'What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone monuments but what is woven into the lives of others.” - Pericles
Relationships: Marc Klein/Ida Hale
Series: Casus Belli [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1861873
Kudos: 1





	1. what is left behind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silmarilz1701](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silmarilz1701/gifts).



Legacy is what is left. Born, lived, and died. When the final breath is taken, the legacy is what is left behind. A scar across the world showing generations to come what you did, who you are. It marks your moment in time. 

The Hale’s home was one such legacy. Firmly affixed to the same street in the same family’s hands for seven generations, the grand house on Belgravia Square was a scar onto its own. White, magnificent, and home. 

Ida had spent her whole life there, with the exception of a few months out of the year where they would travel to Scotland for a holiday at the estate. She had learned to walk there, learned everything that a well to do daughter of reasonable wealth ought to know. And there she learned of her family’s legacy. 

It was displayed proudly on the gold wallpaper in the parlor, in the shape of seven portraits. Grandfather, great uncles, and uncles occupied that place of honor, championing for the Hale name: one that meant success and strength. Military careers and political achievements. Their legacy was deeply steeped in English history, like the tea they drank in this very room, strong and dark but still well-loved. Like their family gatherings for small pastries and that hot beverage, Ida had been taught early on how to act and behave. Like a good daughter and a good girl should. 

She would offer them tea, as a good hostess would. Ida would sit neatly, primly, as a good girl should. Ida would always smile and nod along with her father’s not so gentle pressure of the recent eligibility of certain family friends. Because a good daughter would marry well. 

Even in the 1930s, with women’s vote a fresh memory and the progression of the world, some things hadn’t changed. Legacy was the currency in which the elite dealt and Ida didn’t have any of her own. She could borrow from the pocket of her father and of her brothers. Daniel and Everett had the power to spare. Sons of Colonel Arthur Hale were enough to grant them anything they desired, opening doors that would turn away Ida, though they bore the same name. 

She knew that this was a fact of life. She also knew she had to further the legacy of another, by giving life to another family’s future while never seeing a mark of her own. The portraits were of men: fathers and sons. But the mothers were never shown. Nor the daughters. The key to their continued life and they were not shown in a single frame. 

What would it take for her to be in one of those frames on that wall? Perhaps on a wall of her own? Ida Louise Hale with a legacy like her father’s but one that wouldn’t be stamped out like a spark. One that would last forever and ever. Like her father’s. Like every other Hale in history. 

It wasn’t academics or career. Even the eccentric choice she had gone with. Everett and Daniel had been called up, pushing a pin into this chapter of the Hale timeline. Marked with their bravery in 1939. They joined the Army and the Navy before the war had started when it was just starting to brew. Ida hadn’t done it to be like them. She had joined the SOE to become better than them. Some women would become nurses and some would keep the home fires burning but Ida had spent too long staring at her great-grandfather’s military uniform to not snatch up the first opportunity of service. 

A man at a party had found her in the corner, in a deep conversation with a friend in French. Ida could acclimate to climates and atmospheres in the social scene, a skill that her mother had passed on. It was survival for women. 

“You speak French well,” The man had said. 

“I should hope so,” Ida had laughed, in that bell-like tone that was trained into her. Lillian Hale had taught her how to be a good hostess and an even better flirt. Women didn’t have a legacy but they did have appearances and character. “My parents spent a fortune on a tutor.” 

The question had turned into an invitation with the blink of an eye. An office in Whitehall, then on a train to Scotland where her life of reasonable comfort and ease was replaced with grease and long runs in the fog. But being remembered for more than the life you brought had a heavy price. Sweat dripping down Ida’s back and fingers calloused from the sharp metal of the gun was the payment due. 

Gone were the smooth hands that had never worked for more than charity, replaced with hands deft with guns, radios, and paperbound secrets. Her mother had spoken of the holidays she had gone on in France as a child but the world described to Ida, wrapped up in blankets and tucked neatly in her bed, wasn’t the one she walked with caution. Paris was only three months occupied but the curfew wasn’t quite the glittering city Lillian had described. 

The gardens were still lovely, just as her mother had promised. Flowers still in bloom in mid-August though the heat was nearly unbearable. The gray uniforms must have been stifling for the Germans but Ida’s blue skirt and blouse would keep her cool. She sat on the bench beyond the lilac bushes, waiting for her contact who had promised to meet her in a cafe down the road. There was no point in arriving early, not when meeting anyone to pass information was dangerous enough. 

Pigeons flitted around her feet, an ever-present pest in Paris, gobbling up what crumbs remained from some kinder pedestrian’s birdseed. Ida didn’t like to feed the creatures, who were sure to swarm if food was in sight. Ida had grown used to them, almost, in the nearly six months she had spent on the continent. Dropped in Belgium and traveling on foot to Paris, Ida had only the guise of a student and the orders to establish a network of contacts. 

The sea of feathers parted in wake of a man, around her age, walking confidently towards her. His posture gave a sense of youth and enthusiasm that was furthered by the look in his eye. He marched straight towards her, never a foot wavering. 

There was nothing menacing in his gate that would suggest a Nazi secret police or someone with an intent to harm. But he never wavered. The man sat beside her, ignoring the pocketbook and stack of books between them, the universal sign for occupancy. 

He smiled at her, bright and almost as unwavering as his march towards her. She raised her eyebrows. 

“I believe there is a less crowded bench over there,” Ida said, pointing to the other side of the park. 

“Two isn’t a crowd, is it?” He said, eyes twinkling. “And there are no pigeons over there.” 

Pigeons. Of course, he chose to sit directly beside her for the birdwatching.

Ida shifted. She had been used to overeager men at social gatherings and had learned how to read them in Scotland during training. This one offered no ill will that she could recognize, just a set of brown eyes that were melting in the August heat. He was handsome, in an endearing way. But Ida was still suspicious. 

“Are you a student?” He asked, not missing a beat despite the steady look Ida was leveling. She wasn’t a mean spirit by nature but she didn’t have time to engage in pleasantries with a Parisian, not when she would meet the key to establishing a network in France for lunch in a few minutes. 

“Are you?” She asked, speeding up the small talk script that was known to everyone and all too familiar to her. Ida had spent hours working on etiquette as a girl and had memorized every rule in the book. She also knew when to break them. 

“Yes, at the University of Paris,” He said. “I’m Marc, by the way. A pleasure to meet you?” 

“Is it?” Ida asked. Was it a pleasure when he had sat on her bench, encroaching upon her solitude, and started to inquire about pigeons?

“Yes, it is. That’s why I said it.” 

“And your name is?” He pressed further, refusing to take silence as an answer. He didn’t seem to understand the subtle social cues. Ida would have to be more direct in her approach. 

“Louise,” She said, smiling just as brightly as the grin he had offered a few moments before. Marc blinked as if shocked by her sudden switch. His mouth hung open as she tossed a lock of hair over her shoulder. “Tell me, what brings you to my bench?” 

“A beautiful girl,” he said, grinning again. 

Ida glanced around. The park was empty other than the man beside her. “I don’t see her, shall I keep you company while you wait?”  
“That would be very kind of you,” 

Ida turned back to face the pathway, letting the slight breeze blow the hair off the back of her neck where it clung with sweat. She was flushed, by the heat, not this man’s presence. She was frustrated by him, that’s what this was. Ida had one job in Paris: establish a network of contacts and informants who were ardently Anti-Nazi. Once that was done, she would have a functioning legacy that would continue to provide information to help the war. That was it. That was her plan. 

But this Marc didn’t want her to have a plan, it seemed. He kept chattering, trying to compliment her in a thousand different ways. Her watch was nearing noon and she wouldn’t have much time. 

“Oh look,” Ida said quickly. “Here comes your pretty girl now,” 

She gestured toward a small blonde, who hastened up the path towards them. 

“That’s my sister,” He said, chuckling at the girl. 

“Enjoy your family, catch up,” Ida said, standing and gathering her books to leave. “ I would hate to interrupt.” 

He touched her arm, stopping her from running down the path of the gardens towards the cafe where Genieve De Gaulle was sure to be waiting. “You never answered, are you a student?” 

“Yes,” She said, allowing a small slip. Why was she telling him her legend? A stranger off the streets who wanted to watch pigeons and flirt shamelessly? “At the University of Paris.” 

It was all a lie. Papers provided by the British government made a good cover but not the truth. Marc didn’t seem to care, just grinning again. His smile was too bright and his enthusiasm continued to rise, the longer he looked at her. 

“I’m sure I’ll see you around, Louise,” He said. 

“I’m sure you’ll try,” She said, and against her better judgment, she smiled. Ida turned and marched out of sight around a lilac bush.


	2. a masterpiece

“I’m sure I’ll see you around,”

That was what Marc had said, when they had parted ways in that garden, among the pigeons and the blooms. She had no way of knowing that his words were true. They had seen each other around, despite Ida’s best efforts. She had truly thought the birds and the bench would be their last encounter but that brown head had been an ever-present sight. A part of Ida’s Paris experience, it seemed.

WOrk with the resistance had led their paths to cross again. Marc Klein and his siblings were now everywhere she looked and while they were curious about her position, her intention, and the mission that had thrown them together, Ida couldn’t tell. Not a soul, not a friend, and not a bird. No one could know. While she could pretend all she wanted that she was normal, a university student, and wandering about campus helped with that, Ida was a Hale, and Ida was an Agent.

Ida was here for more than just organizing a student’s resistance. The SOE would send her on the weekends, as if forgetting she was supposed to be undercover, to the outskirts of Normandy, planting contacts and making allies along the coast. She sent messages by radio, coded under her blankets at night, and while she was always surrounded by people, Ida was very alone.

She had been taught how to acclimate to social climates, changing her voice and appearance so that she was seamless in the landscape. But Ida couldn’t make a name for herself if she was using a false name. How would her legacy ever amount to the Hale standards if she was pretending to be Louise here?

Being a spy was a load of bullshit, Ida decided, kicking a crack in the pavement and immediately wishing she hadn’t. Pain shot up her foot and she cursed under her breath. There was no reward in being a good liar. There was no legacy for a girl who pretended to be someone else.

She had only just returned from her two-day stint in Normandy, making contact with a woman in St. Marie Du Mont, and while Ida was back in the city with her safe house and the cover of Louise, she didn’t feel very safe. There was something about the Nazi uniforms around every corner that sent shivers down her spine. Nothing about her screamed “Agent” or “British” but Ida couldn’t ignore the twist in her stomach. Fear kept her alive but fear was also making it hard to sleep and hard to stay still. Restless, Ida had taken a walk, letting her feet wander until they had carried her back to that park. Her fear hadn’t left her totally unprepared, an umbrella tucked under her arm, in case the sky let down its tears as it’s grey color promised.

Her feet led her where her mind wished they wouldn’t. Ida couldn’t help but wonder what was in charge: mind or heart?

He sat, head down, tossing bits of some grain into the feathered crowd that gathered around his feet. Brown hair flopping over his face and the slope of his shoulders looking particularly glum. Of course, her feet had led her here. Of course, Marc would be sitting in her favorite spot. Of course, the bench would be occupied and those gray pests were flocked around him.

“Figured you were here.”

His head jerked up and the grin he gave her nearly drove away the damp chill in the air, forcing the clouds back. Almost. She stepped a little closer but paused, at the edge of his devoted followers. Those birds were the bane of her existence.

“Hey Louise,” He said. “Fancy seeing you here,”

When she glanced nervously at the birds, he had the nerve to laugh. Ida had been attacked by a flock of them in Hyde Park as a little girl and it had taken her nanny’s umbrella and Daniel’s whooping to drive them away.

“They’re birds. They’re not going to eat you.”

Marc didn’t know that.

“Only because you have them trained,” She said, glancing back up at the gray sky. Marc’s smile might not have the power of the sun after all. “I’m not sitting out here in the rain.”

Marc nodded, standing up and disturbing his following. She would have taken a step back but Ida’s feet were stuck in place, allowing Marc to bridge the gap between them. He wasn’t much taller than she was but the few inches he had seemed to make all the difference. With a smirk, he held out his hand.

She looked from him down to his hand. It held a little bag filled with grains of a wide variety. Without opening her own, she just looked back at him. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Well, it’s called birdseed. Birds eat it,” he told her.

It took all of her willpower to not smile but it was a struggle. She tried to mask it with a roll of her eyes. With a small hum, Ida just looked at his hand again. “Right. I’ll ask again. What am I suppose to do with this.”

“Just don’t eat it,” he said. Well, there went her plans. She couldn’t deny him a smile, one that was almost untainted by the fear and the mission she had returned from. Her contact had small children and Ida couldn’t help but feeling like she had sentenced their mother to death. But here with Marc, that all seemed miles away. Years from now. She was with Marc and he had made her smile.

“Hm, is that so,” she said, wrinkling her nose at the bag in his hand. She didn’t really want to feed these birds. If she did, perhaps they would never leave her alone. They would follow her to the ends of the earth and Ida didn’t think she wanted that fate. But Marc’s eyes were on her and they seemed to make everything too warm, too warm for her coat and the hair that hung loosely around her shoulders. Maybe, just to get him to leave her alone, she would feed the damn birds. As her fingers dug into the bag, Ida wasn’t so sure she really wanted Marc to leave her alone. Hesitating for a moment, she looked between the pigeons and the birdseed. She flung it in an arc and the birds followed it, leaving her, blissfully, alone.

“Good form. You could be a professional pigeon feeder,” Marc said. Perhaps she would take the skill back home with her. Take her nephews and niece to the park when she saw them again. If she saw them again. A clap of thunder removed the thought from her mind, and she thanked her lucky stars that she had brought the umbrella. Unfolding it, she let the shadow of the arch fall across her face. Marc watched her, making no move to unfold his own. The rain had started, falling in sheets, and he looked bedraggled within seconds.

“You don’t have an umbrella?” Ida asked, her lips twisting into a smile.

“No. I didn’t think about it.”He admitted.

“Of course you didn’t.” Ida would have rolled her eyes if he didn’t look so pitiful.

“Got room under yours?” Ida could have turned around and left him in the rain but she moved closer, her feet moving at her heart’s commands. Letting him under the umbrella seemed innocent enough but the closeness was like the warmth of a fire and the bottom of a bottle of wine. Intoxicating and soothing.

He didn’t seem to mind the closeness, wasting no time in stepping closer. “Thanks.”

“Why are you whispering?” she asked, lowering her own voice.

“Well, there is a war going on.” Ida glanced down at their hands on the handle of the umbrella, a few inches apart. His hands were bigger than hers but she had the callouses of a spy. Something in her wanted to cover his hands with her own, just to compare, her thin fingers to his. An utterly ridiculous thought, Ida shook it out of her mind.

“Really?” She didn’t move away though her training told her that attachments were a bad idea. That letting the wings flutter in her stomach would lead to nothing but pain. Her brown eyes searched his face, looking for assurance that this was real. “I didn’t notice.”

. “Yeah, there are these people called Nazis—” She didn’t move away. She moved centimeters closer. This wasn’t her first time making a man breathless but none had mattered so much as this one. No man mattered as Marc did.

She muttered. “You don’t say.”

“That’s why I’m whispering, Louise.”

“Is that why?” Repeating the words tied them even closer together. He was whispering because he looked at her like she was worth more than life itself. Like she was a masterpiece to be cherished. He didn’t care what her legacy was or what name she belonged to. He could keep looking at her like that and then even Ida wouldn’t care.

She didn’t care when Marc bridged the last gap between them. She let him, welcomed it, even. Ida pulled him closer, wanting to breathe in his cologne and the appreciation he had for her. Ida was a masterpiece in his eyes, and she didn’t want to forget it.

She pulled away long enough to breathe, “Ida,”

“What?” His nose brushed her cheek, cold in the chilly rain. He looked as if he didn’t understand. As if he hadn’t comprehended her words.

“Ida. It’s Ida.” She repeated. Louise was only a lie. But Marc would know Ida.

Marc grinned though his voice still came out as a whisper. “Hello, Ida. Fancy meeting you here.”


End file.
